It's in his eyes
by peachringsandbananas
Summary: John sees the sadness hidden in Sherlock's eyes, even if he doesn't. Written in response to a prompt by invisibleblade (invisibleblade.)


"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street…" The door closed with a click, leaving John staring at the blank doors in awe, wondering just what had happened. Not only was he amazed by the insane amounts of intelligence he clearly possessed, but there was something… different about him. He was fascinating. The look that John's face had defaulted to after the war was buried deep in Sherlock's eyes. Beneath the wink and grin, he was at war. Not against an army, against himself.

The more they seemed to spend time with each other, the more he noticed it. The faint glimmer of sadness in his eyes. It was all too familiar. The way he backed away quietly as John approached him, like a timid child hiding behind his mother's leg in the face of danger. And he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. Sherlock Holmes was a mystery to him, and John definitely wasn't any sort of detective.

Months passed, and the sadness grew. Overtaking his eyes until they were swimming with mystery and caution. Fear? He doubted it. Sherlock insisted he didn't feel any emotion, especially not something as trivial as fear.

And yet he still asked. As if the answer would change.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Of course I am, why wouldn't I be?" He snapped back defensively, eyes flicking over in his direction with annoyance as his fingers continued to dance around whatever experiment he was working on now. His hands were barely shaking, but John noticed. He always noticed.

"It's okay to feel things, Sherlock. It doesn't make you any less of a person." He pressed, attempting to reassure the man, only resulting in making him even angrier.

"Really, John? What would you know about that? You bury your problems so deeply you have to visit your therapist and even then you won't admit you have any. Your limp has started to come back because you're worried and stressed, yet you refuse to use your cane in fear I'll mention it to you, and you couldn't have that, you would look weak. So you focus on me, displacing your own anxiety in me, projecting your problems onto someone else in hopes that will help you figure out some sort of answer. You think if you imagine I am you, you'll be fine. Because that way you aren't the one with the problem. You'd be the hero for fixing it, rather than being the desperate child you are affected by such meaningless emotions-"

"Sherlock, stop that."

"- Oh but not quite yet, John. Because we still haven't figured out your problem. We still don't have answers. But I do. John Watson, you are in love. And you're afraid."

They sat in silence, and for once, John didn't see the glimmer in Sherlock's eyes, instead he felt it in his own. Tears stung, rising up to the surface and spilling over, everything he had been so desperate to ignore was revealed. Not just by himself, but by the one person who he didn't want to know.

"Sherlock…"

"Listen, John, I'm not done quite yet." His hands left his work, he now spun in the chair to face him, face expressionless and blank.

"Because you weren't wrong. But instead of seeing what you should have, you saw a reflection. You thought I was as conflicted and afraid as you were. And I'm not. Tell me, John, what's your conclusion, based on that data?"

Sherlock stood up, taking long strides around the room and smirking to himself, waiting to disprove John's assumptions.

"I don't know, Sherlock."

John bit his tongue, holding back the things he wanted to shout at the taller man for mocking him, but he waited. He needed to know the answer.

"Don't be dull, just guess."

"Fine." He took a deep breath, glancing over to him. "You hate me? Want to leave?"

"Wrong."

Time seemed to move in slow motion as Sherlock took two short steps toward him, eyes glistening with something he had blocked out. Something he had ignored.

"I am in love with you, John Watson."

The words were whispered against his lips as the consulting detective leaned in, pressing his lips to his gently, hesitating as he felt John tense up underneath him. Soon they both relaxed, melting into each other in a mess of clutching hands as they grabbed at each other, desperate for touch.

There was no denying it anymore. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
